Every time we do this feels like the last: dressing up to go out, blood red lips and smokey eyes, pale bare skin under transparent fabrics, short skirts and high heels. Stephanie digging through the closet in her black lace underwear, asking me about every little detail but ignoring my answers.
It's almost too
easy. Rome might be as different from Paris as Paris is from LA but the
men are always the same, drawn to us like moths to a flame. We burn fast
together, in need of brand new kicks each night and it only gets harder
with time. When we fall we fall hard but it doesn't matter much 'cause
at least we'll know we're still alive.
Henry never called, I
thought that he would but he didn't. I quickly deleted the message he
left on my Facebook page, like an impulse telling me to rip the wings
off the spring's last butterfly. When we run out of Campari it's time to
leave, don't be surprised if tomorrow you'll find me breathing at the
bottom of the river.